by V. Holmes
SMOKE
AND
RAIN
BOOK ONE IN THE REFORGED QUARTET
Φ
V.S. Holmes
AMPHIBIAN PRESS
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
SMOKE AND RAIN
Copyright © 2015 by Sara HV Carignan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
Amphibian Press
www.amphibianpressbooks.com
www.vs-holmes.com
Cover by Ben R. Donahue
www.bendonahueart.com
ISBN : 978-0-9961330-1-2
First Edition
THE LAYERS OF A SINGLE LIFE
CHAPTER ONE
The 17th day of Lumord, 1251
The City-State of Vielrona
ARMAN'S SKIN PRICKLED WHEN he stared at the women across the room. He edged between the lines of cots, trying to focus on the injured. The three dozen refugees brought in four days ago had dwindled to a score, despite his mother's help. He straightened a few blankets and refilled a water pitcher before looking up again. Six figures were clustered around the open window. They seemed unaffected by the cold breeze. The tallest glanced over, meeting his eyes. Heat chased ice up his spine. It was unpleasant, but a deeper part of him enjoyed it, like the burn of alcohol down his throat.
He shook the sensation away and forced himself to approach the women. He used the term "women" loosely. Laen were never simply women. In his twenty-three years he had never seen even one of the gods' creators from afar. Now half a dozen of them stood in his mother's inn. Arman hastily combed a hand through his blond curls and bowed awkwardly. “Excuse me, Lady Liane.”
Her silver eyes slid over him in absent acknowledgment, “Liane is fine.”
“My mother said you were welcome to stay as long as you need. Vielrona was once a guard-city for your people, and we will act as such.” It doesn't matter if centuries have passed and we have nothing to protect you with. He pushed the negative thought away, hoping the Laen could not read minds.
Liane scanned the injured filling the room. “We cannot stay.” The Laen were worshiped, once. Centuries ago, however, the very gods they had created overthrew them. Those gods, and their human armies, hunted the few Laen left alive. Liane’s hard eyes turned back to the youngest Laen, bundled in a cloak. “We thank you, but no place is safe anymore.”
Arman followed her gaze to the youngest woman. She looked no more than thirteen, though he supposed she could have been decades older. Her companions were concerned, perhaps distantly angry, but only she showed fear.
It could be her youth. Arman noticed the armor glinting under her cloak. She was the only one thus protected. He stepped back instinctively, paling under his tan. Her presence, even rumor of it, would bring armies down upon his city. “There is a road,” he gestured, “from the western wall.” His hand shook. “It is narrow and rocky, but few use it. It would be safer.” He spoke to Liane, but his eyes had not moved from the younger Laen. The others seemed to ignore the conversation. He felt Liane's eyes narrow on him. Arman held his palms up, as if surrendering “I won't tell a soul, I swear.”
Liane stared at him a moment longer, then gathered their few belongings. “We have four guards some days, even weeks, behind us. If they come through, you may tell them our path.”
“How will I know them?”
Liane looked back, exasperated. A lesser woman may have rolled her eyes. Her hand snaked out and rested on Arman's brow. Cold spread from her hard fingers before he could pull away. With it came an image. Perhaps it was her memory. Arman jerked away and stumbled back a few steps, his jaw clenched.
Liane nodded once to him before sweeping past him and out of the room. The others filed after her. When the last had disappeared, Arman fell to his knees and emptied his stomach into a washbasin.
Φ
The dim common room of the Ruby Cockerel was deserted. Most patrons sought other alehouses since the Cockerel's rooms had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. Arman was glad for the quiet. He downed a mug of cheap tar-whiskey and poured another before sliding onto a barstool. His yellow-green eyes were dark.
A week ago he had joined a scouting troop to investigate an ominous cloud of smoke over the southern hills. They had expected the remains of a summer fire or a small raid. Instead they found a massacre. Their ally-city, Cehn, had been razed. The attack had been swift and thorough – less than fifty had lived. Among the survivors in the governor's manor, however, were the six Laen. Arman had no doubt they were the targets of the attack.
He took a slow sip, allowing the sting of the alcohol to clear his head. When the gods overthrew their creators, the world had fractured. Some said it was the aftermath of killing the most powerful creatures. Others said it was the Laen's last defense.
The girl who had just left was not any Laen. She was what both sides of the war had been seeking.
The oak door of the common room banged open and heavy boots sloshed across the floor. “Fates, this rain is horrid. Picked up out of nowhere.”
“Hey, Wes.”
A large-boned young man slumped into the seat next to Arman. His tan was several shades darker than Arman's, and heavily weathered by the heat of a smithy. He jerked his blocky head at the ceiling, “They still here?”
Arman shook his head. “Left a few minutes ago.”
Wes suppressed a shudder. “Probably them that made the rain. Hide their trail and all.”
Arman rolled his eyes and stood to pour Wes a mug of ale. “You know they can't play with weather. It was strange having them in the house, though.”
Wes accepted his mug with a nod of thanks. “The idea gives me the winders.”
“I am all for them winning the war, but that feeling when they look at you – like jumping into the Halen in winter.”
Wes eyed his friend. “I never had that. Granted I didn't live with them. If we're not careful you'll be chasing after them.”
Arman snorted and finished off his tar-whiskey.
“So why are we drinking tonight?”
“You're drinking because you tracked slush all over my mother's floor and you know she won't yell at you if you're tossed.”
Wes glanced guiltily at the floor. They had known each other for almost as long as either had been alive, and Kepra Wardyn was as much Wes' mother as she was Arman's. The smith fished a towel from under the bar and began to boot-slide it across the wet floor.
Arman's mouth twitched at the sight. “You are better than a lady's maid, Wes. You ought to do away with the smithy and take up a job here.”
Wes growled, “And what would you do at the forge without me? You have no head for business. You'd be lost.” He shuffled carefully back towards the bar to gather the worst of the mess. “Why are you drinking?”
Arman glared at the cloudy dregs of his drink, as if they had caused his confusion. Wes did not strictly count, as he was closer to family, but Arman had promised not to tell anyone. “It's nothing important. Seeing all those people upstairs brings the war home. Most will never wake up. It is strange to think it was so close to us.”
“They won't come here, Arman.” Wes' muddy eyes were earnest, “We have nothing they want.” He took several deep swallows of his ale. “Fates, your mood is enough t
o make a man drink.”
Arman fixed Wes with a pointed stare, “They were here, Wes. The same ones that brought the Miriken into Cehn. It isn't stupid to be worried.”
Wes shrugged and drained the rest of his mug. “Suit yourself. I should get home, I need to start working on that piece for Reskle tomorrow.” He buckled his cloak again. “Will you be by tomorrow?”
Arman nodded, “I have to finish the jewel-work on that hilt.”
“You're seeing Veredy tomorrow night though, eh?” Wes waggled his eyebrows suggestively from the doorway.
Arman's laugh scratched in his irritated throat, “Hopefully. There's still a lot to help Ma with, though. Out with you, you're letting the rain in.” He winced as Wes' exit rattled the glass in the windows. He found a clean towel and went over his friend's slush trail, his gaze distant. He had not lied by saying the massacre had brought the war home. Violence was not a stranger to him, but battle caused a different violence than the city streets. The war had been reawakened by a rumor. Arman had barely been walking when the news first arrived. The bloodshed against the Laen started again. This time, the gods were looking for a woman called the Dhoah’ Laen. She would be more powerful than all her foremothers and some said she could mend the world. The reality of such a creature was dubious at best, even in cities that supported the Laen. After twenty years and thousands of deaths, it was hard to hope.
Arman scrubbed his face with a groan. “The Miriken are looking for her, Wes.” His voice was low. He needed to tell someone, even if it was just the empty common room. “The Miriken are looking for the Dhoah' Laen, and she was in my mother's house.”
Φ
The 20th Day of Lumord, 1251
The City of Berrinal
Bren decided Berr was not a beautiful country, but its timelessness grew on a man. It was wedged between the curl of mountains running along the eastern coast and the rocky shores of the ocean. He was growing used to their hosts after spending the better part of two months among the Berrin.
He sat in the rear of a small rest house, the closest establishment to an alehouse the Berrin had. His feet were propped on a narrow stool and he held a large mug of hot ucal, the fermented seaweed drink preferred by the locals. His staff bearer sprawled similarly beside him. Both wore the brown uniform of Miriken soldiers, though Bren's was newer. His ever-increasing height forced him to be outfitted more often than any man had a right. The heavy copper emblem hanging from his neck, however, was old and worn. The center shone from the number of times he had rubbed a thumb over it during prayer or thought. He fiddled with it absently now. “Korir, you should ask for a foot rub." His voice was low. The gray landscape lent itself to silence, and the Miriken were reluctant to break it.
Korir snorted, "I would be as likely to get a man as a woman. I've had too many surprises this journey already." The Berrin cared little about whether one was born male or female to fulfill certain gender roles. This led to several confusing and embarrassing situations when the more rigid Miriken had first arrived.
"It will be a relief to be back among our own city girls," Bren's grin was roguish.
"Are you growing tired of the new culture already, Corporal?"
Bren laughed. He had practically run to the ship when they received orders to sail for the mainland, eager to set his feet on anything other than Miriken soil. Bren was about to order another drink when a head popped through the door to the main room of the alehouse. "Corporal Barrackborn, Milord King asks for you."
Bren handed Korir his mug. "Here, I might be awhile." The streets were haphazard and winding. By the time he arrived at the top floor of the embassy manor his cloak was coated in a thin dusting of salt. Berrin seafearing shamed all others, though Mirik was an island kingdom herself. The former lived and died by the waves, and the sea filled every aspect of their world, from patron gods to officers' titles in their army. Bren tidied himself and pulled the leather cap off his short, auburn hair. He rapped on the door softly.
"Milord King? Corporal Barrackborn here."
"Come in," the voice was distant.
Bren kept his head down as he shut the door behind himself. "You asked to see me, milord?" He was careful with his words. Though Azirik was never anything less than intelligent, the man's single-minded drive could be described as insanity. Now the king sat at his desk, peering at scattered military maps. His long hair had been laced with gray since Bren could remember, only the crown still a light red-brown.
"We are leaving Berrinal within a week. The negotiations finalize tomorrow. Save the hideous pomp, we are free to leave anytime afterward. I need a troop to move west. I sent Lieutenant Gransa south several weeks ago to hunt down rumors about Laen in Sunam. Cehn was defeated, but they lost the creatures. I want you to lead a second troop west, to cut off their escape in Athrolan."
"I am honored, milord, but would Lieutenant Serik not be more suited?"
Azirik's bright blue eyes flicked up to Bren with an unreadable expression. "Serik has been gone a week."
Bren forgot himself, "What, by Toar, does 'gone' mean?"
Azirik rose and walked to the window, ignoring his soldier's insubordination. "I do not know if you noticed, Barrackborn, but Mirik is not what she once was."
Bren had noticed, he would have been a fool to not. War changed Mirik. He witnessed it all from the soldiers' barracks where he had been raised. None dared mention the fall of the city, but Azirik would have to be blind not to see what his declared war was doing.
"Many lesser families sought safer cities years ago, when I first honored the gods with our dedication."
Bren did not break the long silence that followed the king's statement.
"Barrackborn, the capital is closing. All the higher born have fled the kingdom. Enough of our soldiers have family in the lower nobility. Serik was one, and he tried to follow his parents. The desertion was punished properly two days ago." He paused. "You are promoted to Lieutenant. You leave in four days at the head of Serik's troop. They are your men now."
Bren bowed his head, "Thank you, milord. I am honored to do all I can for the gods."
Azirik was silent again. He finally looked up, as if remembering Bren's presence, "You may go."
Bren bowed and showed himself out. He had wanted to finish his ucal, but now he just wanted air. Though an orphan, he had worked hard to educate himself. He knew serviceable economics, and if the higher born were fleeing the city, it did not bode well. The economy would be in waste and the common folk would starve. The commoners were the backbone of any city, and without them the city would fall.
He steadied himself as a particularly large wave made the ground lurch under him. The constant rocking of the Berrin capital, perched upon natural seaweed-supported islands and constructed rafts, wore on Bren's nerves. He pulled out a tattered bundle of cheap paper bound in canvas. With each advancement in the army, he had found it useful to record his thoughts before writing formal officer's logs. Perching on a wall at the edge of the ocean, he dipped a metal camp-quill into the ink.
Milord King made me Lieutenant of the Eighth this evening. This promotion is exciting, but I fear for the causes. I am told my predecessor deserted to be with his family, who, like many others, is fleeing the country. I never question my king, or even considered the logic behind the war. I know once I began I could not stop. Questioning orders is not my place. If Mirik cannot support this war, then what will become of us? Soon I will lead a troop into Athrolan, hunting the Laen. I know I will have honor in destroying them, but I cannot say if the gods will care, or if Mirik will be rewarded for her dedication and sacrifice.
Φ
The 22nd Day of Lumord, 1251
The City of Vielrona
The quiet clicking of Arman's pliers distracted him from the eerie silence. Though quiet was preferable to the groaning of the injured refugees, he could not shake the feeling that he was surrounded by the dead. He leaned back to shed more light on his work. The hilt in his hand was intricate and th
e carefully placed garnets and topaz glittered under the single lantern. Though his father had been a true bladesmith, Arman's talents ran closer to artist and jeweler. Wes had taken over the heaviest smithing. Tending to the survivors had cut into Arman's work, but he found it was peaceful to work while he stayed through the night. He was tightening the wire wrapping around the hilt when ragged breathing cut through his focus.
A woman in a corner by the hearth tossed in her sleep. Arman poured a mug of water and crept over to check on her. Her dark hair was tangled across her furrowed brow. One white-knuckled hand clenched the sheets.
Nightmares. He had no doubt most of the survivors would have them. He crouched beside the cot and dipped a cloth in the cool water of her washbasin. She muttered incoherently as he wrung it out and draped it over her forehead. Her face was the rich brown of the Sunamen, but her pale forearms told him she was not native to the desert. He pressed a finger to the place just below her thumb that his mother had shown him. He was not sure what to feel for, but her heartbeat was strong, if fast. Dreams, even nightmares, are good. It means she will probably live.
Once her movements had settled, he returned to his seat. The room was quiet again, but he was distracted. He fingered the wood handles on his jeweler's pliers, thoughts drifting. A few of the survivors had woken, though most were too ill to be truly aware. Between festering wounds, exposure to the cold desert night, and dehydration, it was a wonder any had lived to see Vielrona. His musing was finally interrupted by familiar sounds drifting from the kitchen below. Arman glanced outside. It was dawn.
After a minute the door opened quietly. His mother moved from cot to cot, her fingers feather-light as they checked pulses, fevers, and bandages. Her smile was warm when she glanced up at him. “How are they?”
Arman wrapped his work and tools. “Well. It was a quiet night. That man's fever rose. He barely stirs.” His expression was grim. “That girl, there, she had a nightmare an hour ago. Settled when I put that cloth on her forehead though.”